


all that you need is what you lost

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable Bruce Banner, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bruce Banner Feels, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Bucky Barnes-centric, Depression, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Panic, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bruce Banner, References to Depression, Sad, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 06:17:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21221969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: It’s not fair, he thinks at first. But then, as he thinks about it some more, he realizes it’s perfectly fair. It’s the best reward for the life he’s lived this far.Bruce finds Bucky having a panic attack, but soon realizes there’s a lot more underneath than just that. (set AFTER endgame)





	all that you need is what you lost

**Author's Note:**

> I literally haven’t posted anything for SO long lol this isn’t even proofread really but pls enjoy! haha
> 
> OH! Title: Desert Days - Blanco White

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed, far later than he should be awake. He’s decided that he hated the way his brain works— he hated everything about it, even though the part of him that ever reacted to the words is gone. Something still remained. 

He holds his forehead in his hands, shutting his eyes tight as he does his best to ward off the shrill drumming of his heart rattling behind his ribs. 

It’s not fair, he thinks at first. But then, as he thinks about it some more, he realizes it’s perfectly fair. It’s the best reward for the life he’s lived this far. 

And then, for the first time in his life, he decides that he’s pretty sure he needs to be on anti anxiety medication. Or something. Because this, here, is not working out.

His heartbeat isn’t slowing down so he starts to pace around the room. Movement seems to help, he’s noticed. 

For a moment, he wants to tell somebody. Suffering alone hurts.

But who could he tell? He’s guilty asking Sam for help, because Sam’s already helped him so much; Bruce has said a thousand times that he’s just not that kind of doctor; Steve isn’t here anymore to help him on nights like these.

Which he isn’t mad about. Not anymore, at least. In the beginning it hurt, but soon he grew to realize Steve’s reasons for leaving. He just wasn’t happy here. For Bucky it’s different. He knows there isn’t any way he could ever go back, no matter how much he may feel like it’s what he should do, he knows he could never make it. He belongs to the present now, not the past. Maybe it’s been like that forever. 

Bucky’s suddenly snapped back into his own head. Thinking, mental stimulation— it helps the anxiety. So he starts to occupy himself with that, making sure to fill every empty silence with some sort of thought, no matter how pointless. 

But soon he starts to run out of ideas. That happens when a majority of your life is a fog of externally-controlled actions in which you were completely helpless. They’re not entirely bad memories, the ones of Hydra, but he’s pretty sure that’s mostly because, as a defense mechanism, he’s forced the bad ones out of his brain forever. He’d read that in a psychology magazine once.

There’s a few bad ones that remain, though, and somehow even as he tries to avoid them, the closer they get to the forefront of his consciousness. 

He has to sit down when he realizes he’s actually dizzy, and that his hands felt like they were falling asleep. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, out loud, partly because he‘s frustrated but also partly to ground himself, as if maybe the sound will help get him out of his head.

He makes the executive decision to make his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Because water always helps, right?

It takes him a while to get there, though, because his vision is actually going hazy. His chest flutters with every breath, and he’s too scared to stop and listen to his heartbeat, so he just doesn’t. 

He wants so bad to just learn how to fix himself— fix the faulty pieces of his mind, the loose bolts and squeaky wheels, so nobody else has to get too close. He just can’t figure out how.

The glass of water shakes in his hand, and he has to grip it with both to make sure it doesn’t fall. In every breath he can hear the blood rushing through his ears. 

Suddenly he feels nauseous, like the world is swaying beneath his feet, and he’s pretty sure it’s just the lack of oxygen to his brain— because he’s definitely not getting enough oxygen.

He wants to scream for help but he’s sure there’s not enough air in his lungs to even make a sound. He tries to call someone on his phone— anyone, but probably 911— but he can’t even read the letters on the screen because his hands are shaking so much.

So he just nearly drops the glass down onto the table— it’s a miracle it doesn’t break— and leans heavily against the counter.

His heart thrums in his ears and he can’t figure out a way to slow anything down, so he tells himself to relax, and that this will pass. Because it has to, right?

But then it keeps on spiraling, because what if this is the time it doesn’t stop? What if this is how he dies?

He needs to sit down, he thinks numbly, so he slides down to a crouching position, still gripping the counter tightly with his right hand. 

_You are not freaking out,_ he thinks to himself, almost desperate. _You can’t freak out._

He hears the creak of the door opening behind him, and his heart drops.

_Pull it together._

“Barnes?”

It’s Bruce. Bucky has enough energy in him to at least turn around, but he regrets it because Bruce’s face seems to drop when he sees him.

“Jesus, you— what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” he says, tightly and quickly as his chest seems to constrict around his words.

“Seriously.”

“Yeah.” He breathes in through his nose until his lungs can’t take any more air, and then exhales shakily. “No.” His chest still heaves, and his vision seems choppy, like he’s watching life through strobe lights. 

Bruce doesn’t say anything, he just stands there somewhat awkwardly. Bucky would get up, but he’s not sure he can, so he stays down on the ground searching for words to explain this.

He’s pretty sure the panic is subsiding, though, so that’s a plus.

“I just... I’m sorry. I’m okay.” He sighed. His muscles felt exhausted, though, so he stayed down. To his surprise, Bruce slid down to the floor next to him.

“Are you sick? If you’re sick, I can... I don’t know. I can make soup, or something.”

“No, I’m not... it’s okay.” Bucky shuts his eyes. “It’s just... why does this happen to me?” he whispers. 

“What happens?”

“I spiral,” Bucky mutters. “It’s all so fast. My heartbeat goes too fast. Feels like I’m dying.”

“Are you okay?”

“Right now? Yeah. Just tired.”

Bruce nods. “I’ve told you before, you know I’m not that kind of doctor, but...” he swallows. “I’d like to think I’m a good friend. So, um, I’m here for you, you know? You can talk to me.”

Discomfort floods through Bucky for a moment. He spent seventy years having nobody, leaning on nobody, only himself, and it feels like it’s been so long he’s not sure he can change it. 

Yet still, deep down he knows he has to change, because if he doesn’t he’ll end up like all the rest of the shell-shocked, battle-fatigued soldiers he knew during the war. And he can’t end up like that, not after all this time. Not after all this effort.

“Okay,” he whispers, hating how he’s started to shake again. “I just... I don’t want to end up like them.”

“Who?”

“The boys who went crazy in the war. That’s what I’m scared of, that once the dust settles— which, it’s almost settled— I’ll turn out like them.”

“Bucky, what are you talking about?”

“Battle fatigue. Anxiety? I don’t know what you call it these days.” Bucky inhales slowly. “I’m not afraid of guns, I don’t have nightmares about the people I killed... it’s not like in the films, I don’t think. It’s like I’m just... _rewired_. Faulty,” he whispers, pointing to his forehead. “All of this. Faulty.”

“PTSD.”

“Oh. Yeah. That.”

“Steve knew,” Bruce murmurs. “Right?”

“Nobody here fought in a war like I did,” Bucky says. “Except for him. Of course he knew.”

“Do you wish he stayed?”

“No... I know he couldn’t. He still had something back there to fight for.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s alright.” He rubs his face, stomach twisting.

“Do you want help?”

“What?”

“You know. Help. I don’t know, maybe you’re already—“

“You mean doctors?”

“Well... yeah.”

Bucky scoffs. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Bruce challenges. “Everyone always says that. ‘Can’t get help,’ ‘can’t admit defeat,’ you know, it’s that kind of attitude that gets people killed.”

“No I... it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” he presses. “Because I don’t know how long you can do this.”

Instead of being offended, like he normally would, Bucky just laughs sadly. “Yeah, I know.” He swallowed. “The issue is... most people go to doctors because their jobs are stressful. Because... because their wife left them. Because of smaller things. But I... I’m a hundred year old warrior who’s assassinated more people than I have friends. And... and I’m not even sorry, Banner. I’m not sorry that I killed all those people, it’s just numb, jaded, like I just don’t care anymore.”

Bruce goes quiet. 

“I can’t admit that, can I?” Bucky whispers. “That’s something you’re not allowed to admit. That killing people didn’t scar me forever, that I got used to it, that I just don’t care. No regret, no remorse.”

“If you don’t want to get help, that’s fine,” he murmurs. “But you have to try to change something, right?”

“What would I change?” Bucky says, sounding exasperated. 

“I don’t know,” Bruce admits, and Bucky huffs.

“If you don’t know, how am I supposed to know?”

“How about you start by telling your friends,” Bruce suggests. “Tell them what you told me.”

“I can’t even remember what I said. I’m telling you, my brain’s all foggy right now.”

Bruce sighs. “You’re fighting me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I get it, you’re angry, but aren’t you tired of all the fighting?”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, summoning the last of his energy to get up and walk away.

His muscles burn with exhaustion, but he keeps his chin up as he pushes the sliding door and stumbles out onto the balcony. He’s such a fucking cliche, he thinks bitterly, as he stares out down the glowing street.

He hears a knock on the glass door, even though it’s still partially open, and doesn’t bother to turn around to look at Bruce. It’s not that he doesn’t want company, he just doesn’t want the discomfort of being vulnerable in front of someone. He swallows thickly, though, remembering everything Steve told him. Getting better isn’t easy— compromises need to be made.

Bruce pushes open the glass door anyways. He doesn’t say anything, and Bucky feels the need to fill the silence. 

“It’s not the first time it’s happened,” he murmurs. “The... _spiraling._”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“It’s actually... for as long as I can remember. You know, after the war. During HYDRA, I... well, I don’t remember much. But after HYDRA...” He swallows. “After HYDRA, when I was living in Romania, it... it wasn’t pretty. I was a mess of a person for at least a year. But then I got better. I had them less, I actually,” Bucky laughs then, voice thick, “I actually got a job. I know, crazy.”

“Bucky...”

“No, let me finish.” He sighs, leaning on the rail. “I was better for a little bit, is what I’m trying to say. I adjusted, over in Europe. But then I got dragged into all these stupid wars again, and now I think it’s back. And when the dust settles, I’m scared I’ll end up... I’ll end up like them.”

“Do you feel like you are?”

“I don’t know.” He pauses. “Maybe?” He inhales shakily.

“I think the fact that you understand this is a good sign. Right?” Bruce murmurs. 

“I guess so.”

“Listen, man. You’re tough. Definitely tougher than all of us. If there’s anyone who has the strength to beat this,” Bruce says, pointing at Bucky’s forehead, “it’s you.”

Bucky sighs. “Thanks, man.”

“I’m just telling you the truth.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Bucky feels a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up finally. Bruce’s face is gentle, and so understanding that Bucky has the feeling that he knows much more than he lets on. Bucky feels the sting of tears in his eyes, but he forces himself to flash a smile anyways.

“It’s okay, Bucky,” Bruce murmurs.

He nods, and lets out a controlled breath, moving his gaze away from Bruce.

“I should get some sleep,” he whispers. 

“Good idea.”

“I— um... thanks, again. For just, like, talking to me. I appreciate it.”

Bruce just nods, and watches Bucky walk back inside. He watches the way he holds his head a little higher, as if he’s regained some of the energy to use in this fight. As if maybe, things will be okay again.

**Author's Note:**

> Pls leave a comment for feedback, I really appreciate it! Thanks for reading


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